


Her Warm Body

by SheWhoNox



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Smut, F/M, NSFW, PWP, angst now, it's just smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-02-26 23:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWhoNox/pseuds/SheWhoNox
Summary: Nox, emboldened by wine, seeks to discover if Solas really has forgotten what the touch of a warm body feels like.





	1. Close

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of companion piece to He Has Your Scent. I want to get back into writing these two and what better way to do it that smut! I don't think this will be long, two chapters, maybe three. Enjoy!

Nox pulled Solas against her, backing up so she was pinned between the wall and him, her lips seeking his in the dim light of the hallway. It was a dark outside, deep into the evening and she’d found him on her way back to her chambers after having a drink with Dorian.

“Inquisitor!” was all he managed before her lips captured his. They’d kissed before; in the Fade, in quiet moments between shelves in the library, chaste and quickly in the rotunda. But this was different, more insistent, urged on by a Tevinter Red and her sudden realization of exactly how long it had been since she’d laid with someone. That and an annoying question her dear friend had posed to her.

“He’s so stoic,” he’d mused, twirling the wine in his glass. “And to be frank, my dear, if I were so inclined, I’d hardly let an hour go past without ravishing you in the halls.” 

“Flatterer.”

“Naturally. But if makes you wonder if he’s spent so long in the Fade that he’s forgotten what another body feels like.” And then, because it was Dorian, he’d made a retching noise and had complained about having to think about Solas in bed. 

Now she was determined to remind him what her warm body felt like. She slid her hands up his chest and around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He shivered against her when her nails scratched along his scalp.

He had yet to touch her, his hands, she assumed, hovering over her, still shocked by the onslaught. But when she teased her tongue against his lips, eased his mouth open and tasted his tongue on hers, his hands snapped to her hips. She felt him groan against her lips, a rumble that started deep in his chest and reverberated outward like a wave. 

The movement seemed to pull him from his shock and for a moment Nox could taste the hesitation in his tongue. Though she often desired more, Solas never allowed their trysts to get this passionate, this urgent. He always pulled away, softened his touch, redirected her hands. 

She expected it, anticipated it and moved before he could manage the thought of ending it now. 

She pushed up onto her toes and pulled back from the kiss. There was a flush high in his cheeks, bright pink against his freckles. His eyes were heavy-lidden, trained on her lips as they pulled away. The look in them sent a molten trail of heat down her spine and she shivered. She pressed her tongue to the base of his neck, to that small impression of skin, and licked over the curve of his throat, across the ridge of his jaw and took the lobe of his ear in her mouth. 

She bit. Hard.

His grip on her tightened to a vice and he pulled her flush against him, a shocked, strangled gasp escaping him. As quickly as he had pulled her close, he pushed her back, setting her hips against the wall and pressing a thigh between hers. The friction was divine. It set alight something smoldering within her and she ground against his leg as he gasped, desperate for air. 

“Vhenan,” he breathed against her skin, lips pressing fevered kisses to her neck, her shoulder, any bit of skin he could find. 

Her hands withdrew from his shoulders to slide along his sides and find the hem of his tunic. She slipped her hands beneath the fabric and felt the planes of his stomach twitch at her touch. She traced the lines of his ribs, the soft, barely present curls beneath his navel. She felt the tough skin of long-healed scars. Beneath her touch, he twitched and quivered, soft sounds, like gasps or pleas, pressed out from already burning lungs. He shifted to press himself more firmly against her, seeking her touch with his body, starved for it. 

He tugged at the laces of her shirt, pulling the linen aside to bare a breast. He muttered something - a curse, prayer - before his hand delved past the loose laces to cup her, roll her breast beneath his palm. She shivered, arched her back to press herself more firmly against his hand. 

“Solas,” she moaned, gripping his back as he bent to lavish the curve of her breast, his mouth hot and tongue desperate in its lashings. 

His name on her lips drew another groan from him. A jerk of his hips, unbidden, staccato and uncontrolled, pressed the length of his desire against her stomach. His whole body shuddered at the contact. His fingers dug into the soft skin of her breast. His lips traveled a frantic path back to hers, his tongue pressing into her mouth, drawing breath from her lungs. Her nails scraped along his back, rising angry red welts in their wake. He hissed against her lips, his back rolling as a wave of pleasure traveled down his spine. Encouraged, she nipped on his bottom lip, eliciting another breathless moan and another firm thrust of his desire against her core. She hummed and ground herself against his thigh, trying desperately to press the knot of nerves between her thighs against him, trying to get more friction, more pressure. 

He shifted his leg, pressed it deeper against her so each of her wanton, indecent thrusts hit that sweet spot. 

“Yes,” he groaned, then, his lips above her ear, his breath warming the shell of it, “I want to feel you.” The hand at her breast pinched and drew a cry from her. She was coming undone with nothing more than a hand at her breast and a leg to rut against. A small part of her brain told her to horrified. Then Solas’s teeth pressed against the soft skin of her neck and all other thought fluttered from her brain. 

But she wanted to feel him too; he was shuddering against her, his breath ragged, his fingers clutching at her desperately. She thought he was close. She could feel him straining for touch, for friction, for anything. Her nails dragged down his stomach, making him groan, and, finding the waist of his trousers, she dove in. 

He was warm, hot, like blood. And the sound he made when her fingers found hardened flesh was like a gasp that stole his soul from his body. 

And then he was gone, his thigh pulled back, his hands gone from her and it left her shivering against the wall. Like she’d been doused in ice. 

He pressed himself against the opposite wall, hands frantic as they worked to right his tunic and trousers. A ruddy flush coloured his cheeks and bled down his neck to his chest, which was mottled with it. It took a few tries before he found his voice again. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I — you …” His gaze dropped from her face to her chest then immediately to the floor between them. He swallowed and tried again. “This was ill-advised. Inappropriate.” 

She was mortified to see a small, dark patch on his thigh and the burning embarrassment swirled into frustration before she could draw a breath. She jerked her shirt back into place and looked anywhere but him. 

“Solas —”

“Goodnight, Inquisitor.” He turned on his heel and marched away.


	2. Tension

The cool night air was sobering and enough of an excuse for his flushed cheeks should he encounter someone. He could feel his blood pumping, hear it in his ears, felt it flow south and pool deep in his gut. 

Foolish, he chided. Dangerous. Immature. Desperate. 

Worst of all, avoidable. 

He’d been encouraging it, rising to it! Flirting with her, responding in kind. Throwing away all his plans for the promise of what? The warmth of a body against his? Release he hadn’t sought in years? 

The noise of disapproval he made was enough to make a passing guard side step him as they passed. 

He had been alone for a millennia and now, when he was close enough to feel the pull of the anchor, protected by an organization with the military might of a kingdom, free enough to move as he pleased so long the Inquisition was in power, now he chose to throw it to the wind for the chance to feel a breast.

The memory of what her breast had felt like — tasted like — assaulted him. His hands curled to fists in a desperate attempt to directed blood  _ anywhere _ but south. 

His sleeping chambers were rarely used; he often slept in the rotunda or else was out in the wild with the Inquisitor and a small group of their organization, but the Inquisition had ensured that he had a sleeping chamber should he want for one. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d used it. 

It was small and utilitarian, a far cry from the lavish bedrooms that had once been his when this had been his palace. But these rooms suited the mild apostate he’d become. 

He closed the door and braced his hands against it, pressing his forehead to the wood. He was still breathing like a man on the run, deep, shuddering breaths that shook his whole body.

He tried to calm his heart and mind, tried to push her aside, but she remained stuck in the forefront of his mind, unyielding and demanding attention. He wasn’t surprised to find the memory of her as insistent and alluring as her physical self. 

The heat of her body burn on his skin like an afterimage, he could close his eyes and feel every touch of her fingers across his stomach; he could taste her tongue on his lips. The marks on his back pressed against the cloth of his tunic and flashed with heat, sensitive and raw as they were. A rumble of pleasure ran through him at the thought of her marking him in passion, in her desire. 

He stumbled back from the door until his calves hit the low bed and he sank onto it, lying back and throwing an arm across his face, hiding from thoughts of her.

Of course, with naught but his imagination, she would not be set aside. He pictured her writhing against his leg, wet and desperate from nothing more than his mouth on her breast. His free hand touched the damp spot her excitement had left on him and a growl ripped from his chest before he could catch it. His hips jerked of their own volition, seeking hers, wanting rub the length of his desire against her, feeling her shiver at the touch, hear her mewl for it. 

The sound of her gasping his name filled his mind then amplified, changed, adjusted, the desperate imaginings of a starving man; whispered and urgent as he fingered her in the halls of Skyhold; long and moaning as he tasted her desire and drew more from her; screaming and begging as he teased her with his own lust, then the guttural, primal groan of it when he finally hilted himself in her warmth.

He gasped, fantic, his hips rocking against a body he wished was there. With a shaking, frenzied hand — the other still hiding his face — he tugged down his trousers and took himself in his palm. He would face his humiliation later. Now, with the smell of her filling his nose and the taste of her on his tongue, every part of her pumping through his veins, he needed release. 

It was shamefully little time before he choked out a curse and was spent. A dozen strokes, maybe less. It left him panting and without any of the relief he’d been chasing. He still felt tightly wound, no longer hard, but still burning with unanswered desire.

Without the roaring in his ears it was painfully quiet and the shame came up in a tidal wave and any lingering hunger dissipated like steam. His skin was rapidly cooling, sweat and the aftermath of his frantic pumping drying up in the night air that slipped through the stones. He felt like a lecherous old man. 

A groan bubbled up in his chest. A mess, he thought. The whole thing was a mess. He wasn’t supposed to get attached. She wasn’t supposed to be —

His mind halted at whatever insult he tried to hurl at her. It wasn’t her fault, he thought softly. That laid with him alone. He had been foolish and had allowed himself to be taken by her. It was no fault of hers that he hadn’t felt any touch, let alone an intimate one, in a lifetime. It’d been misguided — hopeful — to think that this wouldn’t end in ruin. 

Solas wiped himself clean and rolled onto his side. Sleep wouldn’t come, he couldn’t bear being in the Fade in this state. But he turned his back on the rest of the castle, on her, and tried to steel his resolve for the coming days.

 

* * *

 

Across Skyhold, Nox was furiously chasing an end that eluded her. Face pressed against her pillow, hips thrust up into the air, she sought her own release. But no matter how quickly her fingers moved, regardless of the flick, pinch or press of her own hand, it wasn’t enough. She tried to imagine his skin, his lips, her name upon them. If she screwed her eyes shut she could almost taste him. But the scene would play out in her mind and he would push her away, guilt flushing his cheeks.

And then all the desire would drain out of her, leaving her annoyed and no less riled up, but now with no way to deal with it.

It had happened already. Twice.

With a huff, she flopped onto her back and made a half-hearted attempt to start again. It was frustrating, she thought. All the flirtation, the small kisses, all the innuendo for some heated necking in a hallway. She didn’t want to think about what that meant. She desperately wanted to know why and didn’t want to think about it. She wanted to find him, ask him what was wrong, but also maybe throttle him and also ride him until his bed broke. 

It was a mess.

And she was mostly certain that things would make sense if she could just get off. 

She imagined someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, a different shaft in her hand. She tried to remember the press of someone else’s breasts against her skin, the feeling of lips of her neck, against her core. 

She moaned and settled deeper against the mattress, remembering the long hair she’d wound around her fist as the woman knelt at the edge of the bed. With something for her mind to cling to, her fingers made quick, familiar strokes. She rocked against the bed, close now, her eyes screwed tight as she kept hold of the fantasy. 

Her fingers itched to find purchase against skin, to raked lines into someone’s flesh, make them shudder. She thought of Solas’s creamy skin and the ruddy flush on his chest and how he had shivered and moaned when her nails had clawed him. She wondered what his back looked like now and it sent a hot jolt right to the pearl she was desperately working. 

She pushed back against the thought of him, tried to cling to the hazy memory of the woman whose name couldn’t remember, but it played out regardless. She replayed his gasps and moans and she was  _ nearly there _ — the press of his body against hers. 

_ “I’m sorry  _ — _ ”  _

Her fingers went still, her breath caught in her lungs. She screwed her eyes shut and stayed like that, hovering on the edge, breath held, muscles taut, for what felt like a lifetime, clawing at the fantasy, trying to  _ keep it there _ .

But it was gone, replaced once again by the burning horror of being left tousled and breathless in the hallway.

She pounded the mattress with a fist and groaned. Useless! She was still pulled taut like a bowstring, but it was clear release at her own hand was out of the question. She doubted release by someone else’s hand would be attainable. Which left her with the only thing left to do.

She fell firmly into the same camp as The Iron Bull on a handful of things, one of them being the philosophy that if something messed with your mind, hit things until you felt better. 

It had worked for her in the past. 

She hauled herself out of bed and washed before trudging downstairs and, avoiding the rotunda entirely, went to the tavern, stopping by the armoury on the way. The sun was already out and Skyhold was beginning to wake up.

Bull was inside, as he always was, and cocked his head at her arrival.

“Hey, boss —”

She hurled the blunted greatsword at him, no small feat for an elf half his size, and nodded outside. He snatched it from the air.

“We’re training. Now.” 

“You got it, boss.” 

She liked Bull. He didn’t question her usually asinine suggestions. 

He followed her to the small dirt pit Cullen had made for the recruits to train in, leaning on the dummy sword as she collected her daggers.

“Something to work through?”

She grunted in response. 

He chuckled and raised the sword, sinking back into a readied stance. 

It was nice to redirect her energy into something else. She felt faster than usual, sharper around the edges. She managed to land three hits on Bull before he knocked her flat on her back with the hilt of his sword. When she opened her eyes he was parched over her, his horns blocking out the sun. 

“Feel better?”

“Nope.”

“Round two?”

She responded by rolling over and pulling his feet out from beneath him. She clambered up his torso. He was too broad for her to pin down by sitting astride him, so she planted a foot against his lowest rib and dug her other knee into the dirt. She had one blade at neck and the other at his kidney. 

“Gotta say, boss, that a disarming position for you.” The muscles in his chest and stomach clenched as he laughed and she swallowed a scream. He cocked his hips and she went tumbling forward. She had to catch herself against his chest to keep from impaling herself on one of his horns. 

“Look at you, all wound up,” he teased. This was their normal banter. He often listened to her bemoan how difficult it was to bed anyone when they thought you were chosen by Andraste. He would say he knew a guy, a guy who had horns, if she was into that kind of thing. It was harmless flirting on both their parts, a familiar way to pass the time. She saw the way Dorian looked at him when he thought no one was looking and more than once Bull had mentioned that it was good someone managed to get past that Fade-Walker’s self-imposed distance.

Normally she would laugh. Normally she would snip something back at him about just exactly how she planned to get unwound. Normally it would have been funny. 

Today she snarled and pushed up to walk across his chest and over his horns to set up again. 

“Round three.”

By round five they had a small audience. By eight Josephine was pushing to the front.

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor, you have  _ meetings _ !”

Nox was dripping with sweat, her shirt clinging to her chest and back, her hair stuck to her neck and forehead. Even Bull was panting as he swung the greatsword overhead. Nox ducked out of the way and, when his sword planted in the soft dirt, she leapt onto it and ran up the length. 

“Flashy,” Bull muttered and hefted the sword up, trying to send her flying. She caught one of his horns and dangled there for a moment.

That broke him, Bull doubling over and sending Nox tumbling into the dirt. She joined in, her whole body shaking with mirth. The tension in her unraveled with each gasp for breath, spurred on by Iron Bull’s rumbling laughter beside her. 

“Better?” he asked as he offered her a hand up. When she nodded, he grinned and leaned in. “Good.” She waited for some playful taunt to follow, but none came. He just helped her up and held his hands up when Josie started accusing him of distracting the Inquisitor.

Josie led her back inside, already briefing her on whatever was waiting in the war room for her arrival. The shade of the main hall cooled the sweat on her skin and raised goosebumps in its wake.

She tried to keep her eyes trained forward as they passed the rotunda, but a flash of movement caught her attention and she saw Solas bent of a few pots of paint, his brow creased in thought.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps and a thousand things crossed his face before it settled into something cool and distant. 

“Inquisitor, Josephine,” he nodded to them each in turn and when he turned back to his work, she saw the dark red mark on his neck, just below his ear and she flushed. Had she bitten so hard? Had they been that reckless?

Of course they had, she chided internally. She had assaulted him in a corridor on the other end of main hall. Hardly discreet. His brow furrow at her gaze for a moment before he coughed and drew his collar up higher against his neck. He turned from them, but not before she saw the flush bloom in his cheeks. 

“Solas?”

His whole body stiffened, one long line of tension from his head to his bare feet. He barely turn his head to address her.

“I wouldn’t want to distract you from your duties, Inquisitor.” 

The words felt like a slap in the face, the formality chilled her. But before she could recover, Josephine was pulling her away, going on about how she really should change, but she was already late.

Once the room was empty, Solas let out a shuddering breath and wished that it hadn’t felt so much like a knife in his own gut to push her away. 


	3. Distance

In the following days Nox threw herself into the Inquisition to distract her, accepting any job or quest, jumping to help any member of their inner circle. She poured herself into other people’s needs. It felt good; she’d been selfish for so many years, focused on only her desperate need for revenge. She’d thrown herself into her work then, too, but it was bloody and brutal and she’d convinced herself that more blood would ease the hurt. She knew better now. Maybe.

At least Inquisition work involved less poison and garrotes.

In light of her outburst — as she’d taken to calling it — Solas pulled away from her. He still spoke when spoken to, still answered her questions, but he wouldn’t be alone with her. Any attempt to catch him alone was thwarted, either by the miraculous appearance of someone else or his sudden insistence that he was needed elsewhere.

Vhenan had left his vocabulary entirely.

It stung more than she wanted to admit. She felt like a fool, head over heels for a man after what amounted to a single night of unfulfilled passion. A handful of kisses, a few endearments and she was a lovesick idiot.

She didn’t want to toe the obvious chasm that had opened between them, but it seemed she couldn’t help herself, bringing him along when she left Skyhold, inviting him to sit with her other companions at meals, asking him in front of others so there was no opportunity to refuse. Twice she’d caught the flash of tension at the corner of his mouth, a twitch of annoyance that he couldn’t school.

It was leagues better than the bone deep sadness that usually filled his gaze when their eyes met, a terrible mix of guilt and sorrow and beneath it a steely glint of duty, a hardened foundation upon which everything else was balanced.

How had she ever thought him stoic, she found herself wondering one night as he stared into the flames of their campfire. Reserved, definitely, but she could easily pluck emotions from him, all his tells written across his face like a vallaslin. The furrowed brow was guilt, the tightening of lips was annoyance. It was amazing what people missed when they didn’t bother to look.

He looked up from from the flames and met her gaze, that bottomless sorrow directed at her and she had to look away.

She hated sorrow. She hated sadness. Anger she knew, rage and hatred and vengeance. It had been her life for so long, it had shaped her. She could take rage and shape it into something useful, into drive and passion and unerring dedication. But grief? Pity? There was nothing in her for them, no spot where they could sit comfortably, no way they could be utilized. Instead, they clung to her like cobwebs, annoying, sticky, impossible to ignore; like ill-fitting armour, painful and clunky, slowing her down, dragging her feet.

She wished he was angry. She tried to force it from him, hurling insults and jibes, trying to stoke the ember of annoyance into a flame, something she could latch onto. She'd expected a refusal when she had sent a request that he accompany her and a few others back to Crestwood, and had prepared her rebuttal, but he'd simply been waiting at the gate when they had set off.

With nothing to fan her anger, it felt ridiculous, childish.

Cassandra muttered something about turning in for the evening and Varric soon followed suit.

"I will take first watch," Solas said as soon as the Seeker stood. He spoke quickly, firmly, a voice that brokered no room for argument.

She'd never let that stop her before. She thought about demanding she take watch instead, but that would only descend into a one-sided shouting match.

Instead she settled down in the dirt, leaning back against the stump that served as the back to her earthen chair.

Solas's eyes flashed to her as she made herself comfortable and narrowed for the barest moment before he gave a barely audible sigh.

"You do not have to stay up."

"I know." She began unbuckling her armour, peeling hardened leather back from her arms and chest and stacking them on the dirt beside her. His eyes followed her movements, stuck on her skin as she slowly revealed more of it, until she was sitting before the fire in a sleeveless tunic and breeches. Crestwood was humid from the rain and the tunic was damp with a day's sweat. It clung to her in the night air.

Solas swallowed and looked away, the shifting flames hiding whatever his face would have shown.

Nox hung her head and stretched her shoulders, rolling them, trying to work the knots from them as the silence stretched on. She felt a warm, ephemeral touch across her back and looked up to see Solas's hand raised, a soft glow in his palm. The tension released after a moment and her eyes closed, a brief shiver of relief running down her spine.

"Thank you," she said quietly. A half smile curled at the corner of his lips. And then she frowned.

"Why?"

His face tightened and he looked down. "You are still the Inquisitor and I am still part of the Inquisition; it is my job to ensure you are alive and well." His voice was clipped, like it was a response he'd forced out on an unwilling tongue.

The words struck like arrows to her chest, taking breath and blood with them. Duty is what kept him around, what moved him to relieve the tension in her back, what made him take first watch. She let out a long, quiet breath through her nose and hoped it would lessen the burn in her chest at his words.

He met her gaze and his face immediately softened, seeing the distress upon it.

"I still care for you," he said as quietly as a whisper, almost lost over the crackling flames.

"Solas, you're barely spoken to me, you won't be alone with me, you flinch whenever I get close. How is that care?"

"Would you prefer that I remove myself entirely? Stop casting barriers to protect you? Leave the Inquisition?'

"No," she said, too quickly.

He didn't speak, but instead raised his brows as if to say _what other choice is there?_

The silence stretched on for a long moment. She looked down at her armour but felt his gaze on her. There was something in the air around her, like static or magic or _something_ that she could feel when he looked at her. She could pick it out on a battlefield, across a room, from the main gates of Haven when she returned from a mission. It was like warmth, teasing touch, a finger along her arm or down her spine; something subtle but present, and it always drew her attention. Having seen the grin on his face when their eyes met, half-hidden, sly, eyes gleaming, she quickly and correctly assumed that was the point.

Feeling his gaze on her now made her squirm. The tease of it felt like a taunt and not in a fun way. She wanted it, yes, but only if it would be matched, returned and acted upon. It felt cruel now, a bait she would never catch because he would never offer it.

Nox picked at a spot on her armour. "I don't know how you're content with things as they are."

"You think this is contentment? You think I am happy to see the pain I've caused you, to see you everyday and know that I caused the hurt that lingers in your gaze?" His hands closed into fists for a moment before releasing. "I was a fool for letting things get as far as they did and foolish still to have let you go." He wasn't focused on her anymore, instead staring at the flames, words spilling from his lips before he could staunch the flow.

"To have heard you — tasted you — and know that it was the last time is," he stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, "maddening."

Nox felt her cheeks flush. He'd never spoken so freely before and never about himself. The knowledge that he still thought of her taste made a mote of warmth swell in her chest.

"Why does it have to be the last time? Why let me go? I'm here Solas." She shifted forward, wishing she was closer to him. She wanted to take his hand, brush the worry from his brow, kiss him until he was calm again. But she worried movement would shake him from whatever trance he'd fallen into.

He grin he fixed her with was bitter. "Because our lives are not our own. You have an entire organization at your back and they must be your sole focus. You are a figurehead, more than just an elf to them. Your passion must be solely for the cause. You must be above any perceived flaw. You are beholden to them, Inquisitor, every time your title is used." His gaze fell to the fire between them as his fingers flexed.

"And who are you beholden to?"

The bitterness on his face deepened and she she caught a flicker of something else tighten his features. Panic? Fear? But as quickly as it had appeared, it was replaced by a familiar mask of calm.

“I am a member of your organization. Though I might want to be selfish and base with my desires, I cannot.”

_Duty_. The implication made her mouth twist. The burden of being Inquisitor had always sat uneasily upon her shoulders and she resented the weight now more than ever. She’d never had a duty before, no moral obligations, no loyalty owed anywhere. Barter hadn’t asked for it; he’d paid her fairly and made it clear she had been free to leave when she wanted. Her father had tried to demand love and loyalty from her, but she’d never given in. Before the Inquisition she had been free to go where she wanted, do what she wished. She answered to no one.

But now she answered to Josephine and Leliana and Cassandra, to Varric and Vivienne, to the thousands who had pledged themselves to their cause.

Thunder rolled above them, a bare warning before the rain began to fall. It sizzled and steamed off the fire for a moment before Solas raised a hand and covered them and the fire in a barrier. The rain sounded like music as it beat off the magical ward, quiet ringing like bells or chimes that filled the silence that had grown between them.

At last she sighed and gathered her things. She couldn’t sit with the silence any longer. Her attempts to draw something out of him, whether it was anger or ire or passion, were fruitless and the impending headache was enough reward for the her efforts.

She stood and the barrier grew to keep her dry. When she passed him to head to her tent, he caught her wrist and it felt like a shock running up her arm. When she didn’t face him, he sighed and let his fingers loosen their grip.

“Ir abelas,” his voice caught on something, an endearment left unsaid and her heart thumped unevenly in her chest. “Whatever happens, I am sorry that I hurt you.”

Nox, fighting every urge to the contrary, tugged her arm free from his grasp and continued on to her tent.

* * *

 Solas sat at his desk in the rotunda, bent over an old tome and a length of parchment, copying down information that might prove useful in the coming months. It was busy work, as all his work was when he was trying to avoid —

His mind skipped over her name, as foolish and fragile as his heart was. He could force his lips to form Inquisitor when they had to, but his heart rejected the title. Nox had been her name first, but it had quickly been replaced by vhenan. The latter was more difficult to shake than the former. 

It served as a cruel and important reminder.

He wasn’t actively avoiding her any longer; she had ridden out two weeks prior with others of their circle in tow: Cole, Varric and Dorian. He had grimaced upon seeing the other mage gear up; his magic was ill-suited to her fighting style. She was reckless and needed someone who could deflect and slow those who swarmed her and protect her from pointed assault. Dorian could barely conjure a barrier.

But she hadn’t asked him to come. At first she had tried to continue on as if nothing had changed, asking him about the Fade, bringing him along when she went out into the world beyond her castle. It had been painful and trying as she had the ability to crawl under his skin like no other. Though he tried to remove himself, put some much needed distance between them, she countered and pulled him back in.

He had felt the indignation roll off of her, the anger. In equal parts he wanted to soothe it and stoke it. He wanted to ease her pain — for that's what was lurking behind the bravado and pointed remarks –– but in the same breath he wanted to stoop to her level, snap and bite and gnash, _anything_ to relieve the still wound tension in his veins. The reserved apostate was so far beyond who she brought out in him: the reckless, passionate man he'd been in his youth.

After their quiet conversation over the campfire at Crestwood she had pulled away, stopped asking him to join her ventures beyond Skyhold, stopped passing through the rotunda on the way up too see Dorian or Leliana. And while it was the outcome they both needed, the absence of her still left his skin burning.

If had just been a physical craving, perhaps he would have been able to shake it. But he found himself craving her conversation, her laughter, the quiet sounds she made when she was engrossed in a task.

He sighed and wiped a hand across his face. How old was he to be acting like a lovesick teenager? He was a millennia too old to be pining for the sound of her voice.

He wished he could lie to her. He desperately, deeply, in the furthest corner of his soul, he  yearned to cast aside who he was and be with her. He would shed all titles for her were it that easy. But he had so much to answer for and the condemned don’t deserve the freedom of fidelity.

Else he wished he could lie and tell her that their tryst meant nothing to him, that she meant nothing to him. A dalliance, a lark, a simple desire for the release of tension.

But as silvered as his tongue may be, he could not lie to himself.

He had to remember the task at hand was a means to an end and to entangle himself further would only cause more pain later on.

Solas pushed back from the desk to look over his notes and strained to eavesdrop on the main hall. Nox had been scheduled to return three days prior and her absence was beginning to raise some alarm among the inner ranks.

Cassandra had marched through the day before, asking if he had word of the Inquisitor.  

“Do you think the Inquisitor and I share some secret exchange, Seeker? I know no more than you.”

Her face had softened and he recalled her fondness of romance novels. “I only thought … ”

“It is over.”

“Oh.”

Cassandra had come to visit that night, arms full with two plates of food and a small bottle of wine.

“You get so drawn into your work that you forget to eat,” she said by way of an explanation. “We are not so different.”

Solas let the air leave his lungs and felt a small grin upon his lips, unbidden. “No, we are not. Thank you, Seeker.”

She kept him company that evening, even as her eyes drifted back to the main hall. They spoke of the Chantry and the Inquisition and their companions.

She returned the following night when there was still no sign of Nox’s return. The conversation then was about obligations, familial and otherwise, and external pressures.

“She bears it well,” Cassandra said. She pushed the food around on her plate, untouched and cold. “I could not imagine being in her position.”

Solas pushed past the rolling in his stomach that came whenever conversation steered towards her. “I’m sure you would fare just as well.”

She bit off a harsh laugh that echoed up the blank wall. “I am rash and rigid. I would have never given consideration to things the way she does.” She dropped her fork and covered her face. “I’m sorry, Solas. How careless of me to speak of her. My apologies.”

He forced a smile to his lips and bowed his head. “She is the head of this organization. I would more surprised if she was not spoken of at all.”

“Still,” she said and poured him a drink. “I am sorry.” She paused and then ventured, her brows knotted and gaze soft. “You seemed happy.”

There was a roar in his ears at her words. Something he had tried to keep quiet and subdued came to life in his stomach. He pushed up from the desk. “Forgive me, Seeker. I must retire.”

She looked guilty but unsurprised as he walked past her. He barely caught her, “of course,” before he pushed open the door to the battlements and was outside.

The night air was a welcome relief, but a small one. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, once, twice, and tried to quell the stirring he felt in his chest. It felt like coming undone, unravelling bit by bit at each realization. His attempts to keep distant had been scattered the moment she had expressed an interest in his studies.

After Haven he had spent hours looking for her in the Fade, finding her and using the magic in her palm –– his magic –– to push her out, force her awake. He had thought it self-preservation at the time; she was a means to an end. But then they found her stumbling in the snow and it was like each bone in his body had melted he was so relieved. Still, he had reationalized, it was relief that they could still close the Breach.

A tug at the wool on the loom, the first wefts pulling free.

Then she had kissed him and, fool that he was, he had returned it, sought her out. Fade tongue, as she had teased.

Another pull, this one drawing him from his careful persona. She brought out parts of himself he had set aside eons ago, prideful things, reckless things, flirtations he would not have dared utter previously begged to be set free, if only to see the way her cheeks flushed, how her eyes fluttered down when she was nervous or glinted up at him, matching his challenge.

Every kiss, every smile, every whispered word of admiration and adoration, pulled more and more from his plan.

Then that night in the hallway. His skin flushed at the memory of his desire and hers, potent in the cramped corridor. That night and his plan was little more that scraps that fell through his fingers.

He pushed open the door to his quarters and sank onto the bed. The memory of the last time he had slept here, taking himself in hand after nearly spilling himself in hers, stuck in his mind like a thorn, but desire was the furthest thing from his mind. A mote of anxiety in his chest had grown each day since her left and he rubbed his palm against his ribs to try and soothe it. 

He was worried about her because she was the Inquisitor, he told himself and it tasted like ash on his tongue. Because she was the only thing that could heal the Breach, he tried but it felt the same.

Because you care for her, you impossibly old fool.

It hurt to think and did nothing to lessen the ache in his chest, but, shamefully, it felt true.

_Happy,_ he thought bitterly, fingernails biting into the wood of the bed frame. When had he last allowed himself that? And then, just as quickly, _what makes you think you deserve it?_

But he had felt it, briefly, in fits, in passing; when she had spent a whole afternoon asking him about what he had seen in the Fade; her fingers brushing his when she took a tome from his desk; her face tipped up to his, challenge in her eyes, making them gleam like stars.

Nox had the ability to make whoever she spoke to feel like they were the only person in the world. He had watched her unleash it on Varric and Cassandra, then The Iron Bull and Blackwall. He had thought it some ploy, something that could easily be seen through. He had thought the others weak for being fooled by it. He had thought it a trick.

Then she had turned to him and he had fallen for it. Her eyes only on him, the first person in an age to _see_ him, look at him and see more than an apostate heretic. He had crumbled into her in light of it, flirting when he should have pulled away, warming when he should have been cold. He had found himself calling her graceful, commenting on the ease with which she moved and it had been all he could focus on for weeks. Her body, strong and smooth, like a predator on the battlefield; he’d watched her fight with new interest, captivated as she spun and slashed and dodged. But then, when they were safe, when her daggers were stashed and her armour gone, she was soft, gentle, still smooth but warmer, like wax pooled at the bottom of a candle.

The bed frame creaked under his hands and he loosened his grasp. The memory of her warm body against his burned in his mind. Though he knew the marks on his back had faded away, he could feel them every time she entered his mind. Marks of passion, of desire. Of possession.

He bit out a harsh laugh. Fen’Harel caught, trapped, _ensnared_. He was becoming little more than a Dalish folktale.

A cheer rang out from the courtyard and he was halfway to the door before he caught himself, one hand outstretched to the handle.

His heart hammered in his chest at the thought of her being so near after so long. Three weeks felt like a lifetime. But he had to pull away. He couldn’t put himself before her now, lovesick as he was. He would crumble before her, seek her skin, her smile, her lips. He could feel the threat of it under his skin, imagining her warm and tired from the road, her skin fragrant from the hard travel. The idea alone was enough to tighten his chest.

Halfway to the door, he considered the possibility that she would not want to see him and reminded himself that despite the agony that felt like a spear in his lung, it was the desired outcome. He needed coldness from her, distance. Distance that would not be obtained by rushing to see her the moment she returned to Skyhold.

Then he heard someone call for healers and he wrenched the door open.

She was alive, blessedly, waving off healers and diplomats and all who demand her attention. She was covered in dust from the road and when she pulled the cloth down from across her nose and mouth, there was a sharp line between the drab grey dirt of the road and the  warm fawn of her skin.

“Get this man in chains,” she said, using her scarf to clean the dirt from her face. The man in question was Venatori, a mage, allowing himself to be led by her. “We decide his fate now,” she ordered and Josephine nodded and cleared the way.

Solas pressed his back to the wall by the entrance to the rotunda, near where Varric normally sat and watched as the trio caught up with her.

“You sure you don’t want to rest first?” Varric asked, his chest and nose a red that clashed against his hair, the topmost skin dry and peeling.

“You took quite a hit ––” Dorian’s hand when to her shoulder but she shrugged away from it, swallowing a grimace. The armour was split from her right shoulder, the leather cracked and shredded, down to the centre of her chest. The skin beneath was blackened and raw from sun, from damage and from infection.

“I’m sure. I’m fine. I just want to get this done and then I can rest.” She glanced around the hall, her gaze sliding over him for a moment before snapping back.

He held his breath as a thousand emotions flickered across her face. He didn’t dare linger on the relief he’d seen, nor the barest of grins. Instead, he focused on the anger that had replaced both of those, the resentment.

The swell of warmth in his stomach hadn’t moved on from her lips pulling into a grin.

He frowned and pushed it aside as she walked up to the throne.

Nox had asked for a simple chair when it became obvious that she couldn’t do away with it entirely. But Josephine insisted on it. To make an impression, she had said, to lend us credit as we pass judgement.

As simple as it was –– a wooden seat with a tall back, emblazoned with the symbol of the Inquisition –– it still struck an imposing sight from the far end of the hall. And when she spun and sat upon it, Nox was just as formidable. She lifted her chin to Josephine as the prisoner was introduced.

"This is Servis of the Minrathous Circle of Magi. He admits to working for Corypheus, raising monsters, and using magic for conquest. He also used his connections to smuggle magical artifacts out of the Approach. Without his master's consent."

Nox grinned down at the man. "You stole from Corypheus? I don't know whether than stupidly brave or bravely stupid." 

The prisoner smirked. "I was hired by a third party. I've no loyalty to him. Might you find that useful, your Worship?"

There was a shocked whisper than ran through the hall, echoed by Josephine, who asked if he was bargaining with the Inquisition.

"Bargain?" he scoffed. "I plead! I throw myself on your mercy." He took at step towards the throne and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I also have friends in Tevinter who owe me large debts."

Josephine seemed shocked, but Nox had shifted forward in her seat and even from the back of the hall, Solas could see her eyes gleaming.

"Your pleading leaves something to be desired," she said, raising a brow when he sank to his knees before her, his smirk now wicked.

"I beg forgiveness, Inquisitor, and lay my services at your feet."

She planted both her feet on the ground and leaned down to look the man in the eye. "A man who can smuggle magical artifacts easily in and out of Tevinter shouldn't be wasted on court diplomacy."

If Josephine was shocked by the words, she hid it well.

Nox leaned back in the throne and pointed to Servis. It was quick, but Solas caught the flash of tension in her face as she lifted her right arm. "Bring those artifacts to the Inquisition. Bring me something especially useful and I might loosen your shackles."  

With that, the judgement was done and the unwavering attention she commanded splintered. Folks turned back to their tasks, left the hall entirely or else swarmed up to Nox with further requests.

She pushed them aside and marched down to where Varric and the others stood, pointedly not looking at Solas.

"Can we please eat something that isn't a stale ration?"

"You sure you don't want something to take a look at that?" Varric made a vague gesture to her shoulder and chest.

With only a small wince that betrayed the pain that must have flared up from the movement, she placed her right arm on his shoulder. "Varric, let me eat something that isn't salted, cured or dried and you can send every medic and healer in Skyhold up to my chambers."

The dwarf narrowed his eyes but relented eventually. The other companions filtered out from the hall, headed to the Herald’s Rest, leaving him, intentionally or not, alone.

He considered following them. He was  … interested about what the Hissing Wastes had held. But he would not go, he could not. Not when he had only just resolved to keeping his distance.

Curious then that his feet brought him to Josephine and he found himself blinking at her as she regarded him.

“I will see to the Inquisitor’s wounds when she returns.”

The Ambassador’s face softened and she graced him with a small smile. “Thank you, Solas. I think we would all rest easy knowing she was well looked after.”

His own smile was tight, but he inclined his head and headed back to the rotunda, resigning himself to an evening of waiting.


	4. Release

She’d been chewing on blood lotus long enough that the tips of her fingers were beginning to feel strange. It was a short term solution for the pain –– the root didn’t lessen the ache from having her shoulder nearly torn from her body, but it was a minor hallucinogen and at least made everything else more fascinating. She needed proper healing. Dorian was useless at it. And she wasn’t inclined to wait around for it to heal naturally. 

She wanted Solas. 

Outwardly, she grimaced at the thought and tried to shove it aside as she kicked off her boots. With her left hand, she began to pry the armour from her chest, hissing as it tugged and chafed at the raw skin. She managed to pry one side of the leather jerkin off before the pain made her head spin and grasp the table beside her for support. Darkness floated at the top of her vision. 

Pride was such a stupid thing, she thought as the pain slowly bled from her chest. She should have gotten it looked at earlier, but they’d run out of elfroot in the field and she’d been desperate to return to Skyhold. 

She was loathe to admit who she was desperate for, but in the Wastes she found herself drawing breath to ask him a question though he wasn’t there or else wishing for his insights on a particular rune they’d discovered. Worse was when she expected his barrier to be in place.

It was how she ended up in such rough shape. They’d been fighting together for months now –– nearly a year, it felt like –– and they had grown to compliment each other. She could skirt the battle, enter the fray at the weakest point and know she was safe to make her first attack. She could keep an eye on him and be there in an instant should someone target her mage. She’d grown used to the press of his magic against her, sizzling in the air, crackling against her skin. 

Dorian’s magic burned hot; an inferno of power and skill and flashing finishers. Solas’s was calmer, but no less powerful. More an ocean than a storm. And she missed it. 

After a struggle that left her panting and sweating –– not helped by the ale she’d had with Varric –– her armour was off and she was just wondering if the dwarf had bothered to send any healers when there was a knock at the door. 

She held her breath and shoved aside the desperate wish that maybe Solas was there, that she would turn around and he’d be at the top of the stairs, happy to see her. 

He hadn’t even welcomed her back. He’d barely left the rotunda when she arrived and didn’t go to the Herald’s Rest with everyone else. He was avoiding her, as she had been doing to him. At his insistence. It was foolish to think that he would be there. 

Still, as she raised her head to yell that the door was open, part of her clung to that foolish hope. 

“Inquisitor.”

She whirled to see him standing there, just as she hoped, and the shock of it and the fact that the room wouldn’t stop spinning made her eyes snap shut. She must have swayed, for a second later he was before her, his hands an inch away from her. Eyes shut, she heard him take a breath then gently clasp her forearms to steady her. 

“You’re hurt,” he said, his voice quiet but rough, like there was something caught on the back of his tongue. 

“I thought your shield would be there,” she said and opened her eyes to look up at him and knew at once that it had been a mistake.

His face was contorted, like the words were torture to hear. His gaze was dark as he looked down at her, fingers gripping her arms as if she was the only thing keeping him standing. 

“I’m sorry.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I should have been there.”

“Would you have come if I asked?” 

They stared at each other for a long moment and she watched him try to find words that would side-step the truth and soften the blow. He searched her face for something, eyes trailing over her vallaslin, across her cheeks, her lips, then he closed his eyes and sighed.

“No,” he said. He pressed his forehead to hers. “I asked for space and found I did not want it. I do not want space between us.” He stepped to close the gap between them. His tunic brushed against the wound on her chest and she hissed and stepped back. 

His magic was around her a second later, warm and familiar against her skin and slowly she felt the dull ache in her shoulder lessen.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to hurt you.” His face was illuminated by the magic, soft green highlights gleaming on his cheekbones and brow. The furrow beside his brow was dark in contrasting shadows. 

“You did.”

“I know.” He approached her slowly, hands outstretched, reaching for her, trying to close the distance between them. 

She stepped into his arms and his magic swelled around her, warmth caressing her skin and it felt like coming home. 

Her forehead lolled forward to press against his shoulder and she let out a sigh of relief. She felt him stiffen against her, his chest locking in place, holding his breath. 

“Solas?”

His hands slid into her hair and tipped her head back so he could look into her eyes. She felt his fingers tremble as they held her.

“Vhenan,” he breathed and slated his lips against hers and she felt every ounce of barely checked desperation in them. He was shaking from the restraint, the frantic desire just contained, simmering below the surface. 

Kissing him at last was enough to make her head spin; the desire behind it and the restraint he held made her knees weak. He wanted her.  _ He wanted her. _ She could taste it on his lips, read it in the soft grip of his fingers in her hair. Her eyes fluttered shut and she pressed into the embrace, her tongue sliding along the seam of his lips. When his lips parted, his whole body shivered and he nearly sobbed against her. Whatever grip he had on his restraint snapped and he was upon her suddenly, his hands on her waist, on her hips, on her breasts. He squeezed the soft curve of her waist, the tips of his fingers brushing along her spine, then swept up, thumbs mapping the curve of her breast through her shirt. His tongue teased along hers, his teeth nipped at her lips until they were flushed. He touched her with abandon, gripping the curve of her ass, pulling her flush to him, pressing the growing length of his desire against her core. She gasped into his mouth and he pulled back to press fevered kisses to her neck, licking the soft flesh there, sucking until her skin flushed a love-marked red. His tongue laved across the marks, soothing them as quickly as he made them bloom on her skin. He caught the lobe of her ear in a tense bite before releasing it to whisper elven in her ear that sounded beautiful and  _ filthy _ as he rasped. His hands offered a sparse translation. 

“ _ Av’in, _ ” when he ran his tongue over her lips; “ _ masa, _ ” as he pinched her ass; “ _ duinelan, _ ” as he palmed her breasts. 

“ _ Duinelan, _ ” she breathed and unlaced her tunic, tugging it up over her head and tossing it aside. He marveled at her for only a moment before lifting her up and sitting her on the edge of her desk. Solas growled and bent to work her breasts, the flat of his tongue passing across her hardened peaks. Her fingers clutched at the back of his head as he made her moan. His attentions focused and soon he was sucking and biting, each flash of pain a sharp point of pleasure that made her toes curl and her back arch against him. She couldn’t wait; her desire spiked and she could feel her heartbeat at her core, insistent, demanding. She inhaled the smell of his skin, hot and damp, and the scent of their desire and rutting making her thoughts thick and forgotten beyond where his mouth latched onto her and where the firm press of his length blunted against her core. Nox slid a hand between them and beneath her trousers and smalls. She rubbed herself, eyes fluttering closed, hips hitching against his when he moaned against her breast. 

“Please,” she breathed and his teeth pressed against her and it sent her over the edge. Her nails dragged against his scalp as she shivered and gasped and his spine rolled in response. He groaned against her breast, hips rutting to rub his cock against her. 

He kissed her flushed chest and gently drew her hand from her trousers. Nox’s cheeks flushed as he turned her hand with his own. She swallowed a moan when he said, “ _ haurasha, _ ” then took her fingers into his mouth to clean them. She watched in wonder as his eyes fluttered and rolled as he lapped at her hand, swallowing the pleasure she’d brought to herself. 

When he was done, Solas raised his eyes to hers and slid his hands to her hips, catching his thumbs at the hem of her pants. She lifted her hips and he tugged them down, adding them to the pile of her clothes at their feet. 

Seeing her, all of her, brought him to his knees with a soft gasp. His hands trailed along her thighs, her calves, the curve of her hips, but his eyes remained on her core, heavy-lidded and warm. His thumbs brushed the soft skin at the crease of her thighs, then again closer, brushing the soft hair at her centre. She could feel his breath on her, warm and humid and heavy. Nox tried to commit the image of him between her knees to memory, burning it onto the backs of her eyelids. When he finally spoke, he didn’t look up at her. 

“ _ Ar tirdanem gluin'en telin y Mythal i've ma, _ ” he breathed, his lips nearly on her, his breath warm and filled with promise and desire. He murmured other things into the soft skin of her thighs, lips pressing the words into her skin so she could feel them though she could not understand the meaning. At last, his lips found her core and her head lolled back and her whole body shivered as his tongue licked a line up her slit. He kissed her core like it was her mouth, tongue teasing along her pearl, lips soft, drawing small sounds from her. His tongue worked to taste all of her, the slickness at her entrance, the hot, pulsing centre at the top of her thighs. He could taste her climbing desire and he swirled his tongue across her core, intent on feeling her come undone against him. He sucked her pearl into his mouth and lapped at it, all while his hands roamed her hips and thighs in a hypnotizing pattern. The pads of his fingers ghosted across her skin with just enough pressure to make her nerves stand at attention and beg for it when his path diverted. The feather-light touch had her desperate for more; she wanted his hands to grip her, grab her, to pinch and pull and clutch her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

Her hands trailed across his head from the nape of his neck to his crown, all sharpness and nails to contrast his touch and he moaned against her, the sound vibrating through her core. Her hips bucked against his face and he doubled his efforts until she was panting, his name falling from her lips like an oath. 

“Fu –  _ Solas _ , wait, I – ah – !” her hands clutched at him, holding him in place, begging him to keep going as her voice failed her. He stiffened as the first drop of her pleasure touched his lips, then, with a moan that made her insides squirm and her toes curl, he lowered his mouth and caught every bead of her pleasure as she shook. He drank from her like a man dying of thirst, drawing her climax out with his tongue and lips, pushing through when he felt her limbs grow heavy until she was screaming his name and her legs shook in his grasp. He could feel her pleasure rolling down his chin in rivulets, soaking his tunic. He was loathe to let it go to waste, but the overwhelming closeness and reality of her demanded his attention, consumed him. As she shivered with aftershocks, he nosed the skin at her hip, inhaling the scent of her; warm skin and a day’s sweat and he loved it. It wasn’t soaped or perfumed, there was nothing hidden there, just warmth and and skin and  _ her _ . 

Solas stood and laughed when Nox greedily lapped at his chin and lips, pressing kisses to any skin she could find, her hands tugging at his tunic. He was unshackled at the sound, set free at the feeling of her against him, wanting him. Like a storm, the feeling came slowly then all at once; it was relentless, tearing through him and leaving him shaking. 

_ Happy _ , he thought as she peppered his neck with kisses, and with it he knew whatever shreds were left of his plan were gone. This feeling he had denied himself for so long now filled every space in his lungs, his chest. He could feel it behind his eyes, in every inch of his skin. Though he could taste his undoing on her tongue, feel it on her skin, he was too weak by far to give it up. 

She tugged at the hem of his tunic and he let her strip him of it, watching with a soft gaze as her hands roamed his chest, tracing old scars and mapping a millennia of war. Her hands were warm as they pressed against him but goosebumps still raised in their wake and soon he was shuddering beneath her touch. It had been so long since he’d last felt touch like this and he was starved for it, desperate for it. 

The flat of her tongue passed over his nipple, then flicked back over the hardened peak and he groaned her name, his hands clutching her back, holding her close. Inspired, she hopped down from the desk and stood against him, her mouth tracing the planes of his chest, hands gripping and scratching his back as her tongue roamed. 

His whole body shivered against hers when her hands slid down to his hips. She trailed her fingers along the ridge of his hips in a slow arc and they jerked into her touch. Nox dropped to her knees and tugged his breeches down and the sudden rush of air against his desire and the heat of her breath on his hip stole the strength from his legs. He gripped the edge of the desk behind her and gasped. She hadn’t even touched him yet and he was desperate for breath, knuckles white against the wood. Her fingers traced the curve of his calf, the line of his shin, up the tight line of his thigh then circled back to tease along the taut contour of his ass, a breathless giggle brushing the curls at the base of his cock when he clenched. The sound made his heart thump unevenly in his chest. 

Her fingers finally found him and trailed along his length, along the underside, swiping across the head before sliding back down to the base. His whole body tensed and his eyes fell shut, his head rolling back and he moaned. One touch and he was nearly finished. He could feel the hot pressure behind his eyes, in his gut, starting from the soles of his feet and pressing upward and outward, searching for release. He tried to stamp down that sudden warmth that pooled at the base of his spine. He only just managed to keep it in check, a choked groan and the sound of creaking wood as his grip tightened the only sound in the room. He angled his hips away from her and sucked in a breath.

“Wait, I want –– I don’t …” 

“Solas.” Her hand had dropped from his cock, but stayed warm against his thighs, fingers splayed. His name on her lips, her voice warm and teasing and thick with desire forced his eyes open and he almost came undone at the sight of her there, kneeling before him, mouth close enough that he could feel her breath on him, eyes heavy-lidded and glinting. 

“I’m not done with you yet. And you’re not done with me.” Her lips curled and he tasted trouble in the air between them. “Unless you’re too old to manage a second round.”

He gave a breathless, barking laugh and threaded his fingers into her hair. He drew on ego from a thousand years ago, a god who would have mocked the shaking, frenzied, besotted man he’d become. “Vhenan, your mouth is wasted on insults.” His voice was thick and deep with desire, hoarse from gasping for air and her pupils blew wide and her lips parted in response and hot satisfaction rolled down his spine like oiled honey. He guided her parted, flushed lips to his desire. He just caught sight of her grin before she was upon him and his eyes slid shut.

She was  _ so warm _ and she seemed determined to feel every inch of him. Her tongue swept over his length, first soft and flat and gentle, the again pointed and probing, following the ridges and curves of him and Solas had to brace his other hand against the desk to stay upright. She pulled her cheeks in and the sudden pressure made his toes curl. Her hands pressed against his thighs, pulling him closer, taking him deeper until her nose brushed the soft curls below his navel. 

Solas was sure he’d never felt anything as warm and inviting as her mouth. It felt like his whole body was in her, he could feel the shiver of each flick of her tongue in his fingertips, in his toes, the crown of his head; a heady call and response that bypassed his mind and touched only his body and soul. He pulled one hand from the desk and ran it across the ridge of her ear, twined it into her shorn hair, held her in place when he felt his control slipping, a last attempt to stave off the impending torrent that he only just held at bay. He meant to last longer, he wanted to last longer than this. Distantly, he could hear himself gulping for air like a man drowning, but nothing existed beyond where her mouth pressed against him. 

When his fingers tensed against her scalp, holding her still around him, seeking a moment’s pause before his control faltered, she moaned against him and his stomach dropped and heat rushed to fill his skin in its absence. The pressure broke and his hips bucked against her, her head held still as his cock filled her mouth and throat. She swallowed around him as he shuddered and shouted and swore. The release was violent, his grip on her and his thrusts both strong enough to bruise. Years of yearning spilled free, decades of longing and desire and need poured into her and she took it happily, greedily, her hands not pushing him back, but holding him close. It felt deeply, primally satisfying to have her like this, on her knees, fucking her mouth and for a moment lust overpowered him. Each pump brought another spurt of release that coated her mouth and throat, and each swallow pulled another drop from him, and he would not stop, not yet, not until the roaring in his ears died down and the potent fervor that had flooded his veins drained. He pressed the palm of his hand to the back of her head, forcing her still as he rocked against her so he could ravage her fully. Her moans vibrated through him, shaking loose and drawing more pleasure from him and he hissed under his breath at her in elven, telling her to savour him, take him, promised her that she would taste him on her tongue until the sky fell, that the cock between her lips and the fingers in her hair would make her howl, all while his length fill her mouth. 

At last, when it felt like there wasn’t a drop of him left, like his entire being had been pulled from him through her, he sagged. Without the heat behind his eyes, guilt rushed in to fill its place. He released her, tried to press an apology into her skin with his fingers. He couldn’t look at her yet, his face still contorted in the aftermath. He’d been nothing short of reckless, rough,  _ cruel _ . Words he should have never spoken had be pressed out through clenched teeth, harsh words, foul things and she deserved better. 

The flood of guilt left him cold and shivering and he tried to figure out how he could leave and cause her the least shame. Apologies felt weak on his tongue as he tried to form them.

He pulled himself free from her lips and tried to step back, but she held him still. Then she pressed a soft kiss to the ridge of his hip and he opened his eyes to see her sitting on her heels, gazing up at him, lips flushed and full, but smiling. Her cheeks were red and bright with sweat, but she was smiling at him, rubbing circles into the tense muscles at his thighs. 

“Been a while, huh?” she breathed and the air between them stilled for a long moment. She grimaced, wiping her hands over her face. “Sorry, it felt like I needed to say something and  _ that _ was what came out.” She peeked up at him from behind her fingers and saw that he hadn’t moved. He was staring down at her, his face stiff and pained and then slowly, like ice melting in the sun, like the gradual lightening of the sky before sunrise, his gaze softened. His lips, flushed from where he’d bitten them, curled to smile at her, his eyes bright and glinting in the low light and he bent and gathered her up in his arms, skin to skin, warm and hot and slick and he laughed like she’d never heard before; deep, full body laughter that she could feel against her chest as she wrapped her legs around him. Her heart clenched when he made a quiet snort as the laughter died down –– a terribly cute affectation she discovered and one he tried to deny having. He nosed at the hair behind her ear, inhaled the smell of her, made her giggle when he nuzzled his face against the crook of her neck. She felt him mumble against her skin, each word punctuated by a brush of his lips. He spoke against her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, then, when he brought her to the bed and settled atop her, he lifted his head so she could hear. 

“ _ Ar lath ma, _ ” his lips pressed to her brow. “ _ Ar lath ma, _ ” her cheek. “ _ Ar lath ma, _ ” her chin. Again and again until he charted her whole body, told each finger, each freckle, each scar that he loved her. He spoke as if the words alone brought him joy, like he could speak nothing else for the rest of his days and he would be content. 

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, kissing and whispering, touching, tracing and memorizing the shape of each other. They curled together, legs in a tangle, warm from the other's touch until the frenzied lust had seeped from them and all that remained was an afterglow of adoration. Nox laid her head against his chest and drew nonsense patterns across his skin with her fingertip. 

"What did you say before?" she asked. "Something about kneeling."

Solas paused running his fingers through her hair. "I knelt to none before you." 

She lifted her head to fix him with a look, one brow cocked up her forehead. "You're rather proficient for someone with so little experience." 

Solas huffed a laugh and she kissed his bottom lip as it pulled into a smile. "Different positions, perhaps," he conceded. "But never on my knees. I find it difficult to be at any one person's mercy." 

"I'll do what I can to make the position more appealing to you."

"Vhenan, you are delectable enough as it stands. Any more and I would lose months to the taste of you." 

A pretty flush pooled in her cheeks and Solas caught hold of her chin before she could duck to hide it against his chest. 

"You are sweeter than any summer fruit, more pleasing than any wine.” He pressed a kiss to her lips and licked them each in turn. “You are so beautiful.” 

At that she ducked her chin and, with a gentle push, rolled him onto his back. She sat astride him, a flush high in her cheeks as she trailed her hands along his brow. 

“You’re not bad yourself,” she said as her fingers traced the curve of each cheekbones. “Dangerously handsome under all the wool and linen.” She outlined the curve of his bicep, the muscles in his forearms when he raised his hands to touch her lip. She caught his thumb between her teeth and drew his finger into her mouth and grinned around it when she felt his whole body shudder in response. 

“Vhenan,” he moaned when she rolled her hips against him. His desire was already thick again, but the press of her warmth had him twitching. She lowered herself down on her forearms, releasing his thumb to lick a long line from the base of his throat up to the bow of his lip. 

The plush press of her breasts against his chest made his eyes snap shut, the softness of her a painful contrast to the growing firmness between them. He ran his hands along her back, feeling each bone and muscle shift as she rolled with his touch, until he gripped her ass, held the curve of it, traced the seam where it met her thigh and could think of no other spot he would rather hold. He guided her hips, pushing her to roll against him again, lifting is own to press more firmly against the juncture of her thighs. 

“Lean back,” he breathed, sliding one hand to rest atop her hip and sliding the other between them. He watched her eyes, dark and warm with desire, and promised himself he wouldn’t close his; he wanted to see her take him. He wanted to see her come undone around him. 

He guided himself to her slick entrance and pressed down on her hip until she sank upon him, taking him to the hilt in one fluid motion. 

His eyes almost fluttered shut; her mouth had been warm and welcoming, but this ––  _ this  _ was heat like he’d never know, maybe he’d forgotten. She pressed against him from all sides, hot and slick and demanding. He felt her hips shift as she stretched to take him, watched as her spine rolled and it felt like he had filled her right to the crown, like he was filling every inch of her. He swore and held her still, knowing that one more curl of her hips would end him. Solas pressed his thumb to her pearl and rubbed slow strokes against it, spreading her pleasure across the hood until he felt her tighten around him and it felt  _ exquisite _ . 

“Please,” she moaned, her hands pressed against his chest, nails carving half-moons into his skin. He quickened his pace and watched her face as she climbed. First, her mouth parted, brows pulled to a knot above her nose. Then, as he worked her, her mouth opened further and further and the flush of her cheeks pooled in her chest. She leaned on her hands, on him, and the weight of her, of his love leveraging him to chase her own desire, the press of his fingers just where she wanted them to be, made his heart swell and he pressed his thumb more firmly against her core, tracing faster circles against her. He felt her core flutter and tighten around him and her brows shot up and her whole face slackened and she smiled, gasping for breath, but smiling as she came undone around him. 

It felt like watching an eclipse, some secret, special miracle and he’d gotten to see and he was desperate for more. Before she had sagged against him, he pulled her hips firmly down as his snapped up and they met with a damp smack that made her eyes jolt open. She gasped then moaned, leaning back as his hips rose to meet hers again. He watched, entranced, as each of his thrusts was mirrored in her breasts, shivering and bouncing with each rut. Her eyes snapped down to his as her jaw worked and for a moment the intense heat of her gaze was all he could focus on; it was just for him, pointed, sharp and blistering and he wanted to be the only person who ever saw it. Fierce possessiveness tore at his chest. He wanted to own that look, see it every night and day.  _ Fuck _ , he wished he was lucky enough to see it each night. 

The sound of them rutting filled the room, skin against skin, her gasping, gulping breaths, and his growling, telling her how beautiful she was, how the music she made was perfect, how the heat of her could keep him warm on the coldest night; ancient phrases, lost to time until now filled the air between them until he was gasping between each word, his fingers tight on her hips. Her gaze unfocused and she tipped over the edge and her spine rolled as the climax poured through her to him. The hands against his chest were hot, tips of her fingers pressing to his skin with enough force to bruise. She moaned his name and it shocked him into action. 

He was chasing something just out of reach, something he had no hope of stopping or slowing, like a great beast hunting, like a storm, an avalanche. He wrapped an arm around her waist and rolled until she was pressed to the sheets and he braced himself above her. He held her thigh and tugged her close and sought to bury himself in her heat. The pace was breakneck and each thrust forceful enough to make her breasts bounce and the bed creak. 

He was roaring now, sounds he hadn’t made in a lifetime but felt  _ so fucking good _ to set free. She was grasping at his shoulders, pulling him closer, touching his cheek, his chin, any part of him she could reach. 

It felt like being doused in fire, like a pressure release after a thousand years of build up, like he hadn't just filled her throat with his seed. Whatever he had felt before was a whisper in comparison. It felt like the very core of his being, his magic, his soul, the spirit he had once been, was being pulled into her, poured into her willingly. 

One moment of toe-curling ecstasy, an ancient oath upon his lips, every muscle pulled taut, and he was spent and boneless atop her. His skin was scalding to touch, but she pulled him closer, her legs catching around his hips, her arm circling his back. Their hearts each raced in their chests, pounding at their ribs like they were trying to touch through bone and skin. His head was heavy in the curve of her neck, eyes shut and whispering in her ear. 

" _ Ar lath, ma vhenan, ar lath ma. _ " 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done. Thanks so much to everyone who read and liked this little journey. It's a sort of companion piece to The Wolf Has Your Scent, which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14422407).
> 
> I hoped you enjoyed it.
> 
> Cheers.


End file.
